![Winter sun and willow tree](https://cdn.myportfolio.com/b477a9dd236dbe03b6dc4de22f5d0980/bc631650-182e-47e0-bb0c-b347f5b3b2a3_rw_1920.jpg?h=d751b158ed348995248850f9c2fcb00d)
![](https://cdn.myportfolio.com/b477a9dd236dbe03b6dc4de22f5d0980/59182142-88ba-484f-82ce-4039cde12713_rw_600.jpg?h=c36c003bc39cd6c1dd202fb75a7aa356)
![](https://cdn.myportfolio.com/b477a9dd236dbe03b6dc4de22f5d0980/69c362f9-743e-401d-bb7a-4e11dd1f5cac_rw_1920.jpg?h=62c9125ccb251a1c0417e3052117b026)
I photographed this great, old Willow, growing at the pond’s edge, in early March 2011. Winter was ending; spring was trying to break through. A few more weeks and there would be green buds on every branch. But that day, the tree was still bare, and the sun appeared as a sinister orb glowing balefully through the winter haze that masked its immense heat and energy. I was so affected by this scene, that I wrote what I call a "margin poem," to memorialize it. (If you find the poem a bit too small to read, simply click on it to make it bigger.)